


Doing Time

by DHW



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Biology, Bottom Elim Garak, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29306988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: Five weeks into Garak's spell in the Holding Cells, he begins to suffer from a mysterious illness.Turns out, it's just that time of the month.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 32
Kudos: 137
Collections: Star Trek: Just in Time Fest





	Doing Time

  


_‘Summer time, and the fibbing is easy…’_

  
  
The call had come in around 1300 hours. A simple request for assistance, Odo uncharacteristically vague, the only specification made that it be Dr Bashir in attendance.

Alone. 

Julian had some inkling as to why he had been specifically requested. The current occupant of Holding Cell Three was one of the station’s more recalcitrant individuals: Elim Garak, former spy, current tailor, and all-round pain in the posterior. Though Odo professed to care little for solids and the intricacies of their interpersonal relationships, even he knew better than to send a Bajoran to tend to a Cardassian, exiled or otherwise. Garak’s ills would be treated, yes, but would be done so with cold hands and an equally icy bedside manner.

If there was one thing that could be said for Julian Bashir, it was that his hands were always warm. 

(The less said about his bedside manner, the better.)

To be entirely fair to Garak, this was the first time in the five weeks he had served that Julian had been called to the brig on his behalf. The slightly more uncharitable parts of Julian’s mind had anticipated a call a week, minimum, each poorly feigned illness some form of pretext to see the doctor in lieu of their regularly scheduled lunches. But no calls had come—until now, that was. Instead, Julian had been left to traipse down to the holding cells of his own volition, his excuses becoming evermore outlandish with each passing week. In truth, he wasn’t really supposed to visit—a point that had been reiterated to him by his Commanding Officer on more than one occasion. Garak was being punished, after all, and what better method was there than social isolation for the station’s most talkative tailor? Six months of minimal contact with anyone but Station Security—a humourless bunch at the best of times—would be more than enough to make the Cardassian see the error of his vaguely genocidal ways. Or, at least, very carefully consider the consequences of another attempt. 

An oddly perfect punishment, all told. If a little unusual. It was Captain Sisko all over.

It did, however, make the current call for attention all the more concerning. 

Medkit in hand, Julian materialised in the brig. The barrier of Holding Cell Three was down. Upon the left-hand bench lay a dark figure, presumably Garak, a thin grey blanket tangled around his legs. Beside him stood Odo and a tall Bajoran Security Officer, the latter’s hand hovering over the phaser at his hip. 

That didn’t look good.

Nor did Garak, Julian thought as he strode into the holding cell, eyes fixed upon the twitching form of his friend. There was a distinct sheen to his scales that Julian didn’t like the look of, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest was definitely a cause for concern. His face was creased with what appeared to be pain, too, scales tight around his eyes, a grimace replacing his more usual grin. 

“I came as soon as I could,” said Julian. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know, Doctor,” said Odo. “I was hoping you would be able to tell me.”

Julian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he knelt down beside the bench and fished around inside the medkit for the tricorder. Fingers clutching his prize, he withdrew it from the bag and flicked the settings to ‘ᴅɪᴀɢɴᴏsᴛɪᴄ’ with practiced ease. 

Garak was wearing distinctly less clothing than normal, Julian was distressed to note: just an undershirt, sleeveless, and a pair of thin black trousers. His feet were bare, claw-like nails digging into the mattress. Beside the bench, Garak’s tunic lay in a crumpled heap, along with his socks and one scuffed shoe (the other having done some variety of disappearing act beneath the pile). The sight sent a chill through Julian, the haphazardly discarded clothing a more concrete indicator of the severity of Garak’s illness than the sweat upon his brow. The man was fastidious with fabric to the point of farce. 

No, this did not look good at all. 

“He’s been like that for the past fifteen minutes,” said the Security Officer. ”Didn’t look too good earlier, either.”

The tricorder hummed as Julian began to scan Garak. Readings flashed across the screen, each one more alarming than the last. Whatever was wrong with Garak, it was doing a number on his circulatory system. His hormones, too; there was enough isocortinositol in his system to bring down an urall. Had the tricorder not been serviced earlier that morning, Julian would have suspected some sort of recalibration was in order. The readings hardly looked real. It was no wonder Garak was barely conscious.

Julian pressed two fingers to the pulse point at the Cardassian’s throat, confirming the readings from the tricorder: namely, that Garak’s heart was beating with the sort of speed one would expect from a man running a marathon, as opposed to one lying supine upon a bench. Satisfied and alarmed in equal measure, Julian began to probe at the scales of Garak’s neck; the occipitoclavicular muscle was rock hard beneath his fingers, the ridge above it flushed with a blue hue. He pointedly ignored the noise Garak made in response—or at least, filed the sound and associated image (Garak, back arched, head thrown back, face a picture of something that could almost be pleasure, if Julian squinted) away for later, solitary perusal.

He was a professional. Now was not the time to get distracted with thoughts of a lascivious nature. Not when the object of his deeply inconvenient interest was in the throes of what could well be a life or death situation. 

“Garak?” Julian said, placing a hand on the Cardassian’s forehead. It was startlingly hot to the touch. “Garak, can you hear me?”

One blue eye snapped open. It pinned Julian with a hard stare. 

“I’m not dead, Doctor.”

“You’re not well, though, are you?” Julian replied. 

He pressed a thumb against Garak’s eyelid, holding it open as he shone the light from the tricorder straight into the Cardassian’s eye. The pupil contracted, becoming little more than a pinprick in a sea of blue. Julian felt Garak flinch beneath his hand at the stimulus. A warning growl accompanied the movement. Undeterred, Julian repeated the action, prying open the lid of Garak’s other eye, and watching as the pupil contracted. 

It wasn’t head trauma; Garak’s pupillary response was normal. Well, normal-ish. Bright light removed, Julian watched as Garak’s pupils re-dilated to an almost impossible degree, the blue of his irises becoming little more than thin rings around pools of intense black. 

“Have you taken anything?” 

“Such as?” Garak replied.

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

Garak’s worryingly dark eyes peered owlishly up at the Doctor. He swallowed visibly, then said, “This is a lot of fuss over nothing. I’m fi—”

“No you’re not,” Julian interrupted. “You’ve got a temperature, your pupils are dilated, and your heart’s beating like the clappers. Whilst I know we’ve had previous arguments regarding your definition of ‘fine’ versus mine, you’d do well to remember who won them.”

A hiss of an exhale escaped Garak’s lips, whistling through his clenched teeth.

“In that case,” he said, with a tired little wave of his hand, “I bow to your superior education in these matters.”

Julian blinked. 

“Wait. You’re going to let me take you to the Infirmary? Just like that? No catch?”

“No catch.”

Julian had expected more of a fight. It wasn’t so much that Garak disliked the Infirmary—he had certainly appeared there often enough—more that he liked to arrive under his own steam. Visit the doctor on his terms, rather than in the arms of either Morpheus or a Security Officer (with one followed by the other more often than not). Ordering Garak anywhere was the swiftest way to ensure it was the last place he’d be. And yet, here he was, agreeing to a transport with only the most cursory of attempts at prevarication. 

This was too easy. Something was wrong. Julian braced himself for the inevitable ‘but’. The sting in the tail. 

And was surprised at the direction it eventually came from.

“Mr. Garak isn’t going anywhere,” Odo said.

Ah, yes. There it was. The fly in the ointment (to get a touch medicinal about it). 

“As you can see, it’s not up to me, Doctor,” said Garak, voice tight. “I’m afraid it is the good Constable who dictates my movements these days.” 

Julian sighed deeply. He placed the tricorder back in the medkit and stood, looking Odo straight in the eyes. Or, more accurately, goo-based approximation. 

“Odo, Garak needs to go to the Infirmary,” he said firmly, puffing up his chest as though spoiling for a physical fight rather than a verbal one. 

“Can’t you examine him here?” Odo replied. 

“Not without the rest of my equipment, no. The tricorder’s telling me very little beyond there being a general shift in homeostasis and a touch of dehydration.”

“And what if this is just an elaborate ruse? Individuals like Garak are hardly above feigning sickness in order to provide themselves with a means of escape.”

“He’s definitely sick, Odo. You saw the tricorder readings.”

Garak let out a small, yet deeply unconvincing cough. Julian rounded on him, giving a sharp tap on the arm with the back of his hand. 

“Stop it. You’re not helping,” he said with a glare. He turned back to Odo. “He needs to go to the Infirmary with me. Now. Whatever Garak’s suffering from, and he is clearly suffering from _something_ , I cannot treat it if I don’t know what it is.”

The pair started at each other for a long moment. 

“I’ll have Security accompany you,” said Odo, begrudgingly.

“To the Infirmary only. Not inside. It’s a matter of Doctor-Patient confidentiality, I’m afraid.”

The Constable bristled with anger. 

“Garak is a known criminal! He’s barely begun serving his sentence. He could use this opportunity to escape.”

“Well, wherever he escapes to, I can guarantee it won’t be far. Not in the state he’s currently in. He’ll be lucky if he gets halfway round the Promenade.”

Odo’s eyes flickered over towards Garak, narrowing as they took in his shaking form, presumably looking for any hint of deception. 

“Two officers,” he said eventually, face grim. “Outside the Infirmary.”

Julian nodded.

“Fine.”

  


♥ ♥ ♥ 

  
It was abnormally quiet in the Infirmary—’quiet’ in this specific context meaning there were relatively few patients awaiting treatment. There was, in fact, just one patient present, along with one doctor and one nurse (the latter currently on her lunch break).

Said patient, however, was currently anything but quiet. 

“Doctor,” Garak said, panting heavily as he struggled upright, “I must protest, I—”

Julian placed a hand upon Garak’s shoulder, pushing him gently back against the bed. If looks could kill, then the way Garak glared up at Julian would have swiftly sent him back to the holding cells, a murder charge added to his rapidly lengthening rap sheet. 

Julian ignored the deadly-looking glower, holding Garak firmly against the bed. He let out a long-suffering sigh. 

“The more you move, the longer this is going to take.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Julian rolled his eyes. With his free hand, he reached over towards the control panel and punched in a series of commands. The fingers currently curled around Garak’s shoulder flexed in a reassuring squeeze. Or perhaps a warning one. Julian wasn’t quite sure. 

He felt Garak’s muscles tense beneath his palm. Face tight with what Julian could only assume was pain, Garak’s eyes fluttered shut as a pitiful-sounding moan escaped him. 

“You might tell lies, Garak, but the biobed doesn’t. Admittedly, I don’t know _what_ is wrong with you, but the readings you’re giving are practically off the charts.”

As if in agreement, the biobed gave a series a warning beeps. Julian didn’t need to look over at the screen to know that most of the measurements would be highlighted in red—the tricorder had told him as much in the holding cells. It was, however, just as worrisome. 

Providing a cure was difficult without an accurate diagnosis. Julian could mitigate some of the symptoms— _triptacederine_ for the pain; _lectrazine_ for the tachycardia; _acetaminophen_ to bring down his temperature; _axonol_ so he could sleep—but without any knowledge of the underlying cause, it felt rather more reminiscent of some sort of game of medical whack-a-mole than a legitimate treatment. 

“Do you have any idea what might have brought this on?” Julian asked.

"No."

Julian's fingers itched with the temptation to brush Garak’s hair back from his forehead. 

He looked so undone. Exposed. Vulnerable in a way Julian had only seen once before, back when the implant in his skull had begun to malfunction. 

A dark thought bubbled up to the surface: was this one of the Order’s little tricks? Another technological malfunction? Or perhaps the targeted application of some variety of noxious substance? 

“Anything you could have caught?” Julian continued, as he keyed a series of new search parameters into the biobed software. “Or anything strange you could have come into contact with? An allergic reaction, perhaps?” He lowered his voice. “Another little gift from your former colleagues?”

“I can’t see how, Doctor. An allergy to pin cushions and fabric would be unusual in the extreme.”

“Garak,” Julian growled warningly.

The Cardassian smiled, though the expression more reminiscent of a grimace than any genuine mirth. 

“I can assure you, it’s nothing a little rest won’t cure.”

  


♥ ♥ ♥ 

  
It was with a weary heart—and wearier head—that Julian shuffled into the Infirmary break room. He made a beeline for the replicator, ordering himself a Tarkalean tea (extra hot, extra sweet, and on this occasion, extra caffeinated) and the best approximation of a cheese and pickle sandwich the Cardassian replicator could provide. With a sigh, he sat down heavily upon the rather battered sofa, upsetting both the tea in his cup and the break room’s other occupant.

Nurse Jabara gave him a stern look. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled before cramming as much of his sad-looking sandwich into his mouth as he could. 

“Bad day?” 

"Oh, yes."

It was an understatement, to say the least. He had a difficult patient with an equally difficult condition, both of which contributed an equal amount to an all round impossible afternoon. Further analysis of the biobed’s readouts had left Julian with nothing more than the question: ‘how high does the steroid hormone scale go?’ The answer being: not nearly high enough. What scraps of data regarding Cardassians Chief O’Brien had previously managed to recover from the Infirmary databases held no clues as to the origin of Garak’s condition. The illness from which he was suffering was as mysterious as the man himself. Which was fitting, Julian had to concede, if deeply irritating. 

Stats climbing ever higher, Julian’s only course of action had been to mitigate the worst of it with a series of hypos, followed by enough _merfadon_ to down an elephant. 

Julian frowned. Whilst he had never been a man to shy away from a challenge, he preferred ones that came without a time limit. Whatever was wrong with Garak, it was getting worse by the moment. The drugs he had so far administered were little more than a sticking plaster. He was going to have to come up with a better solution. And soon. 

He swallowed, washing the remnants of his sandwich down with a gulp of scalding hot tea. 

“It’s Garak,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. His hormone levels are all over the place. I had to change the scale on the chart for his nitiridone reading, it was that high.” He took another swig of tea. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I have.”

But Julian was only half-listening. Too busy bemoaning the state of his patient, he continued on, brain working overtime to catch up with the speed of his mouth. It took a few moments for things to synchronise. 

“And his temperature! I had no idea Cardassian’s could get that ho— Sorry, what did you say?”

Jabara smiled. 

“I’ve seen it before. A few times, actually.”

“And?”

The smile widened into a full, slightly mischievous grin. 

“It’s, um, a bit _personal_ ,” said Jabara, cheeks reddening as she spoke. 

Intrigued, Julian set his mug down upon the coffee table and turned to face her. ‘Personal’ could mean any number of things. There was certainly an argument to be made that most medical examinations and procedures had an element of the ‘personal’ about them. After all, there were few orifices in which one could stick a gloved finger without the invasion of some form of privacy. 

It was a hazard of the job. 

“We’re both fully qualified medical professionals, Jabara. ‘A bit personal’ is very much our bread and butter.”

Jabara tilted her head in agreement.

“It’s a form of sexual dysfunction,” she said. “He hasn’t had sex in a while. Or can’t. So his body, or rather his priapal gland has gone into overdrive.” 

“Oh.”

Julian blinked. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t that. In his experience—both professional and personal—such issues were usually accompanied by a mild form of embarrassment (however unwarranted), not what appeared to be a body seemingly content to trade one type of death for another, less metaphorical variety. 

“Sexually active Cardassians have certain requirements,” Jabara continued. “It’s like a cycle. An internal clock that ticks down, ensuring that everything is, well, kept in working order, I suppose.”

Julian shook his head, trying to reorder the jumble of thoughts that were buzzing around his head. Garak was in such a state because he… hadn’t had sex in a while? It sounded preposterous to Julian. Preposterous and, if he was truly honest with himself, more than a little intriguing. He tamped down the flare of _interest_ that shot through him at thought of exactly what form of hormonal compulsion the Cardassian was under. And what he might do to mitigate it were he not quite so professionally minded. 

Surely it was his duty as both Garak’s doctor and, more importantly, his _friend_ to lend a helping hand? 

Wasn’t it?

The sudden crushing weight of a thousand textbooks on medical ethics clattered down upon the thought, crushing it before it could raise not only its head, but another, distinctly more physical thing. 

“Are you saying Garak has gone into heat?” Julian said after a moment, unruly mind wrestled back from the carnal and towards the clinical. 

“No. Well, sort of. It’s complicated.” Jabara took a long drink from her coffee mug. “Basically, most Cardassians, if they’ve not had any form of sexual release in a while, enter a slightly different physiological state. One that sort of, well, pushes them towards that release, shall we say.”

“An orgasm a day keeps the Doctor away,” Julian said before he could stop himself.

“More like a month.”

“I wasn’t being serious,” he mumbled as he waited for the station floor to open up and swallow him whole. 

Jabara, consummate professional that she was, ignored Julian’s flaming cheeks—something that the doctor was eternally grateful for—and continued on. 

“Occasionally, you see individuals who, for whatever reason, try to fight it. And that’s when you get what we’re seeing now. Elevated hormone levels. Tachycardia. Dilated pupils. In a few hours, I suspect we’ll start to see some muscle spasms.”

“Is there a cure?”

“A bottle of personal lubricant and unfiltered access to the info-net usually does it.”

Julian frowned. 

“They don’t need another person?”

She shook her head. “Just an imagination, really. All they need is the release itself. It doesn’t matter how they get it, just that it happens. If that means a ridge-play holo and a bottle of Mr. FeelGood’s finest jelly, then so be it.”

Well, that was an image and a half. One that Julian most certainly didn’t need. He was already having enough trouble keeping himself focused on the task at hand (as opposed to the different sort of task his hands itched to be involved in, the imagined fragments of which currently played in the back of his mind like some sort of lewd holo of his own). 

“Why hasn’t Garak…” Julian trailed off, feeling his cheeks begin to heat again. 

It wasn’t a question he had meant to voice out loud, mouth and mind once again working at a disconnect, but it was something that troubled him, nonetheless. Why hadn’t Garak done something about it himself if, as Jabara had said, this wasn’t a tango with a minimum requirement of two? A little recreational self-pleasure was common in every species Julian had ever encountered. It held varying levels of taboo in each individual society, it was true, but as far as the doctor was aware, Cardassians had no such puritan beliefs. And as for Garak himself? The man was as self indulgent and hedonistic as they came. If he didn’t enjoy a regular game of sexual solitaire, then Julian would be forced to reassess his view of the man. And possibly eat a large serving of hat. 

“It’s not really the conversation I’d envisioned having with my lunch partner this morning,” Julian said truthfully.

“One of the many dangers of being friends with a Cardassian,” Jabara replied with a shrug. 

The other, unsaid dangers presumably being the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to offer up one’s own body as the ‘treatment’, along with the distinct desire to make such things a regular feature of their not-quite-a-relationship. At least that was how it appeared to Julian as he sat upon the break room’s sofa, hands tangled in his lap, trying not to think about the ins and outs of the offer he was desperate to make. 

A thought occured. This one distinctly less obscene than its companions.

“What if they, er, don’t?”

“Eventually the urge abates,” Jabara replied. “Takes a few days, and it’s absolute torture from what I hear, but it doesn’t really solve anything. You still get the same problem the next month. It's cyclical, like I said.”

“Ah.”

_Drat._

  


♥ ♥ ♥ 

  
Julian returned to a worryingly empty Infirmary.

Garak was nowhere to be found. The biobed upon which Julian had left him was as Garak-less as the rest of the place. It was an impressive disappearing act for someone who had been out cold not 30 minutes before. 

Julian groaned. He had to find him, and quickly. Given the laundry list of symptoms associated with Garak’s current condition—helpfully supplied by Jabara in PADD-compatible format—leaving him unattended was not an option. Not if Garak wanted to come out of this with his dignity intact. His reputation was dicey at best with the rest of the station’s residents; shuffling around the promenade, moaning and shaking like some sort of dreadfully horny zombie wouldn’t do him any favours.

Julian set his PADD down upon the empty biobed and scanned the immediate area, looking for clues.

There were only so many places he could run to—or stumble to, if Julian were to be overly literal, the _merfadon_ in Garak’s system likely rendering him less coordinated than usual. The Security detail stationed at the Infirmary door hadn’t raised the alarm, which indicated that the Cardassian was likely still somewhere inside. There was no way Garak would have been able to slip past unnoticed; not with the cocktail of drugs and hormones currently surging round his system. 

So where was he?

The main ward offered up little in the way of evidence. It was as pristine as Julian had left it, the only sign Garak had been there at all, the crumpled sheets left upon the empty biobed. The area around the main console was empty, too. As was the pharmacy station, isolation rooms 1 _and_ 2, the nurse’s office, all four of the consultation rooms, and the central operating theatre. There was only one area left to search before Julian would have to begin either pulling out pieces of wall or climbing down cramped sections of conduit: the quarantine bay. 

Even before he opened the door, Julian knew Garak was inside. The privacy shields were up, for a start; that particular function required level 4 clearance to operate, and Julian was the only doctor on duty who fit the criteria. If that hadn’t been enough of a sign, the flashing maintenance light on the entrance console was another clue as to the identity of the suite’s occupant. It was the electronic equivalent of a piece of paper with the words ‘OUT OF ORDER’ sellotaped to the door. Garak’s handiwork, no doubt. An attempt to disguise his presence as the simple glitch of machinery. 

Julian punched the override code into the door. His finger hovered over the ‘ENTER’ button. 

“Garak,” he said. “I know you’re in there.” 

A suspicious sort of silence greeted him. Julian’s desire to give Garak a little privacy warred with his sense of duty. 

What if something terrible had befallen him? What if, woozy from the sedative, he had slipped and knocked himself unconscious? Or the muscle cramps had begun, leaving him unable to move or seek relief from the pain?

Then again, what if the silence was due to Garak desperately seeking a different kind of relief altogether? Jabara had said that a quick wank would likely solve the issue, though not in such vulgar language. Julian doubted Garak would welcome the interruption if that were the case. There was little in life more embarrassing than walking in on one’s friend furiously masturbating, especially when the images such a scenario would leave him with would do little more than torture Julian on the lonely nights when he was busy indulging in a little recreational self-abuse of his own. 

That was the question: distress or onanism? It could be either. There was no way to tell.

Julian sighed heavily and decided the best course of action would be to loudly announce his intention to open the door. Give Garak time to stop what he was up to. Julian could always quietly excuse himself later, if he needed to. 

“Whatever you’re doing in there, Garak, I’d stop now if it’s something you don’t want me to see.”

Julian counted to five under his breath—no acknowledgement seemed to be forthcoming—then pressed ‘ENTER’. 

The door to the quarantine bay slid open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a decidedly less risky tableau than Julian had expected. The bay was hot and dark—Garak had clearly fiddled with more than just the privacy controls. Upon the central bed, a figure sat, clad in Infirmary purple.

Garak.

Fully conscious and unharmed, which left the second scenario the only one in play. A fact which sent Julian’s mind into overdrive as it began to conjure all sorts of obscene images.

“As you can see, I’m not doing anything,” Garak said, his voice low and dangerous. 

And he wasn’t. Much to Julian’s quiet disappointment. Garak’s hands were at his sides, palms pressed flat against the mattress. His gown was pristine, buttoned to the throat and falling in a wave of purple down to his shins. Creaseless save for the sleeves, which had been rolled up to his elbows. 

Julian took a step inside, letting the door hiss closed behind him. He leant against the cool metal, folding his arms as debated what to do next. Leave Garak to his own lewd devices, or offer him an alternative? The alternative, in this particular case, being a mixture of sedatives and spasmolytics strong enough to render even a Klingon _Khrun_ unconscious. 

“Good afternoon, Doctor. Forgive me, I must have got lost in my way back from the facilities.”

“Oh, really?

"The contents of the hypo you gave me has left me somewhat disoriented."

"I was going to ask if you needed a hand,” Julian replied, wincing as the double entendre slipped out of its own accord. 

So much for professionalism. 

"With what?"

"Anything, really," Julian replied rather lamely, cheeks burning.

“My own are quite suited to the task, thank you,” Garak said, voice prim. 

Julian watched as Garak’s fingers flexed, digging into the mattress, as if to punctuate his point. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but picture what such a claim might look like. Namely, Garak’s fingers wrapped around his cock, gliding slowly along the shaft of it in what could only be described as open provocation. 

It didn’t take long—a second, or perhaps two—before his mind replaced Garak’s hands with his own, each pass of his palm along the length of Garak’s cock drawing more desperate little sounds from the Cardassian’s lips. His own, too.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.

Now was really not the time. 

Taking a deep breath, Julian reached for the hypospray in his pocket. Option Two. There would be no Option Three, he reminded himself. No matter how much his mind desperately tried to persuade him otherwise.

“I know what’s wrong. Jabara explained it to me.”

“Hmm.”

A tense sort of silence stretched out between them. 

“Is this some sort of mindgame?” Julian said when it became almost unbearable. 

Garak flinched at the sound of Julian’s voice. 

“I’m sorry?” he said, tone sharp.

“Well, I mean,”—no, Julian, _no don't ask, don't_ —”what makes the quarantine bay so much more appealing than the holding cells?”

Too late. He bit his lip before any more words could take their chances and escape. 

Nevermind the proverbial feline, curiosity was almost certainly going to be the death of Julian. It was practically a compulsion, questions tumbling from his lips before he could stop them, no matter how inappropriate. 

The sound of rustling fabric filled the air as Garak shifted uncomfortably upon the bed. He didn’t look at Julian. Instead, he simply stared down at his cloth-covered knees, hair falling forward to shield his face. 

“I’d have thought it obvious,” Garak said tightly. 

To Garak, perhaps. To Julian, there were a myriad of possible explanations. Some plausible, others slightly more fantastical. And really, the better question was ‘why bother to ask at all?’ Garak would simply lie to him, just as he always did, the truth of it buried somewhere beneath a far more interesting fiction. 

And yet, there was something inside Julian that continued to push for an explanation. The same sort of something that made one worry a loose tooth. Or continue to prod at a bruise. (And would likely be just as fruitful.) 

In for a penny...

“You prefer the colour of the walls? Comfier beds? Undisclosed medical kink?” Julian felt his cheeks begin to heat with embarrassment. “Or did you simply fancy a change in scenery?”

“Privacy, Doctor,” Garak snapped. “Something I no longer have.”

Ah. Yes. 

Down in the holding cells, Garak would be under observation 26/7. Even the sonic showers were communal. If there was one thing Julian knew about Garak, it was that he was a man who valued his privacy (less so the privacy of other people, if the number of times he had let himself into Julian’s quarters was any indication, but that was a gripe for another time). Given the situation, it wasn’t entirely unbelievable Garak had ended up in such a state. Surprising, yes—if asked, Julian would have assumed Garak an enterprising enough individual to have found some way of beating the, er, system—but it was still well within the realms of possibility. 

Which only left one question:

“Do you want me to leave?”

There was a pause. The silence that permeated this one heavier than the last. When Garak’s answer came, it was little more than a whisper. 

“No.”

A hopeful little flutter in Julian’s stomach made its unwelcome presence known. He took a deep breath, trying his best to ignore the implications of Garak’s answer. He was here to help him, not fuck his brains out on the quarantine bay floor, even if the troublesome voice in the back of his head insisted that they were one and the same. 

Shoving both hands into the pockets of his trousers, lest they get him into trouble, Julian walked over towards Garak, coming to a halt by the side of the bed. 

“You look terrible,” he said.

“Thank you,” Garak replied. “How kind of you to say.”

“Sorry.”

Not that the apology made the statement any less true. Garak looked as though he had gone six rounds with a Klingon. His scales were slick with sweat, the ones at his neck flushed blue and looking for all the world like the very beginnings of bruises. His eyes were wild and dark, impossibly wide pupils locked on Julian’s own. He was panting heavily, too, chest heaving beneath the thin fabric of his gown. 

He looked like a man about to come apart at the seams. Or just come in general, if the way his fingers had clawed into the mattress was any indication.

Julian swallowed drily. 

“Well… er, how do you want to go about this?”

“You’re the doctor, Doctor.”

It sounded like the beginning of a deeply unfunny joke. 

  


_Doctor, Doctor, lack of sex is making me ill._

_Don’t worry, it'll come and go._

  


Biting back a groan—whether at the joke or the image it conjured remained a mystery known only to the doctor himself—Julian took a seat next to Garak. He was careful to leave several inches between them. Close enough for Garak to reach out, should he wish to, yet far enough away that Julian was in no danger of violating his personal space. 

“You’ve got two options,” he said. “One: I leave you alone and let you get on with it yourself. Or two: a hypo that would help you ride out the worst of it, since I’ve been reliably informed that your symptoms will ease in a few days.”

He fished the hypo from his pocket and placed it upon the mattress between them. Garak’s eyes followed the movement before returning to Julian’s face, gaze avid. A shiver of lust rippled through Julian, leaving goosflesh in its wake. 

“And next month?” Garak said, voice tight. Strained.

“Same two options, I’m afraid.”

Garak swallowed visibly. He broke eye contact, gaze flickering briefly down to focus upon Julian’s lips.

“There is a third option,” he said quietly. 

_Option Three_. Generally assumed to consist of Julian’s hand, Garak’s cock, and a satisfactory meeting of the two. Or so Julian thought. What he _said_ was, “Yes, well, considering you’ve already demonstrated a considerable reluctance towards the idea of masturbating infront of the duty guards down in the holding cells, I discounted that one.”

If Garak was shocked by Julian’s choice of words, he didn’t show it. He simply sat upon the bed, lightly trembling, his eyes locked on Julian’s. 

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

Julian’s fingers itched with the need to reach out and touch him. Take his jaw in the palm of his hand, pull him closer and...

“I know,” he said. “But what you’re suggesting—”

"Is nothing you yourself have not already considered." Garak pushed himself up off the bed. He walked unsteadily over towards the console, fingers trailing across the cold metal. “Why else would you force your way into this room? You could have just as easily spoken to me through the door, and yet, here you are, sat on the bed, offering me distinctly less than you’re willing to give.”

Julian bristled at the (accurate) accusation. 

“I had to come in. You could have knocked yourself unconscious! With all that _merfadon_ in your system, to be quite frank, Garak, I’m surprised you’re upright.”

Garak let out a shaky breath. His hand inched towards the scales of his neck, fingers a hair's breadth from the ridge before he caught himself. It dropped to his side as if he had been burned.

“Perhaps this is all a dream, Doctor?”

“Or a nightmare,” Julian countered. He sighed heavily. "This isn’t how I imagined things would go."

Garak's tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

"But you have imagined it."

He had. Vividly. Which was half the problem, really.

  


♥ ♥ ♥ 

  
“They didn’t exactly teach this in medical school,” Julian said, rolling up his sleeves.

At some point in the previous half hour, he’d lost his jacket and his shoes. Quite how it had happened, he couldn’t recall. Only that it had. And it wasn't the only change to the situation. Instead of arguing about the ethics of the situation RE: medicinal hand-jobs (he'd lost that argument. Spectacularly), the disagreement had progressed to one of relevant experience. Or rather, Julian’s lack thereof. 

“As a doctor, I had hoped that you would have some sort of familiarity with Cardassian anatomy,” said Garak, voice strained. “I’m really not in the mood to talk you through the process.”

They were standing entirely too close to one another. Julian could feel the heat radiating off Garak through what remained of his uniform. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, pushing a lock of stray hair back behind Garak’s ear. “Sounds like it might be fun.”

“Under more usual circumstances, I’d be inclined to agree,” Garak replied, leaning into the touch, his breathing uneven. “However, if I’d wanted the inexpert fumblings of an over-eager, over-sexed individual, I’d have simply lain upon my own arm until it went numb and used my imagination.”

The Cardassian doth protest too much, Julian thought. Had Garak done as he had threatened, he wouldn't have been in this mess to start with. Still, there was little use arguing that particular point. Not when there was the opportunity to bicker over something far more provocative.

“I have experience, thank you,” Julian said, a touch indignant. “Just not with your species.”

“I had always thought of you as the adventurous type, Doctor. Do Cardassians not whet your sexual appetite?” 

“Its more down to a lack of opportunity," Julian replied, his tone pointed.

Garak's eyes flashed dangerously. "Is that an accusation?"

"No. And anyway, I’m sure I’ll be able to make some educated guesses,” Julian continued. He pressed his hand to the front of Garak’s robe, right between the crux of his thighs. “Start small, I always say.”

Garak gasped.

“There’s no need to be offensive,” he hissed, head thrown back in equal parts pleasure and relief.

But Julian wasn’t listening. He was too focused on the fabric beneath his fingertips; it was damp. Julian bit back a moan at the feel of it. Whilst he was under no illusion that the state of Garak’s gown was due to anything more than the hormonal clusterfuck currently pulsing through his veins, there was still something deeply erotic about knowing how turned on Garak had been throughout their conversation. Julian may not have been the cause—and he would analyse the blow to the ego that particular piece of information had dealt later—but it didn’t make it any less exciting. 

“The thing is,” Julian said, as his hand slowly worked its way up the inside of Garak’s thigh, bringing the hem of his gown with it, “inexperienced with Cardassians though I may be, I’ve yet to meet a species that didn’t enjoy something along these lines.” He palmed the ridge that ran between Garak’s legs, skin to scale. “And I don’t think you’re going to be the exception, either.”

Garak opened his mouth to respond, but all that emerged was a quiet, breathy moan. 

“Thought not,” Julian said with a grin.

He pressed a finger between the split in the ridge and Garak practically whimpered in response. The Cardassian's hands fumbled for support, fingers grasping the edge of the bed as his knees began to give way beneath him. 

A second finger swiftly followed the first, and a heavy hand landed upon Julian’s shoulder, the grip vice-like. Moaning, Garak’s pitched forward, head buried in the side of Julian’s neck, each ragged exhale accompanied by the nip of teeth. The occasional kiss, too, the brush of Garak's lips sending sparks skittering across the doctor's skin.

Beneath his fingertips, Julian could feel the hard length of Garak’s cock, now barely concealed within the split ridge. The scales of it silky soft and coated in a thin, slick fluid, it twitched beneath Julian’s touch, eliciting a heartfelt groan from both its owner and the doctor. Gently, Julian traced the raised little ridge that ran from root to tip, pausing briefly to tease at the notch that delineated the change from shaft to oversensitive head, and earning another moan for his trouble. This time, it was accompanied by the flexing of Garak’s fingers, the muscles of his arms tensing beneath his scales. 

Another finger, and Julian felt it shift beneath his touch, slipping free from Garak’s body and into the palm of his hand. Almost reflexively, he curled his fingers around the shaft, stroking up the length of it in one smooth motion. 

The sound Garak made in response was perhaps the most erotic thing Julian had ever heard.

Before he could stop himself, Julian pressed his free hand against own erection, palming himself aggressively through the fabric of his Starfleet-issued uniform. It felt good. And wrong. Sordid, even. He was supposed to be helping Garak, not indulging his own perverted whims. Yet, he couldn’t help it. The sight of Garak, hot and panting, almost helpless with arousal, was enough to make his blood burn. His cock ached with more than simple carnal sympathy. 

He wanted Garak. Wanted to take him. _Own_ him. Make him moan his name, over and over, as he rode him with abandon. 

But he couldn’t. Not like this. This was about Garak’s relief, not his. 

He had to stop.

Mind screaming at the loss of pressure, he removed his hand from the front of his trousers and grabbed Garak’s waist, nails digging briefly into the soft flesh of it before scratching down over his scales, following the curve of the Cardassian's arse. Garak groaned in response, hips snapping forward, pushing his cock further into Julian’s fist. 

“I don’t think of what we’re doing as transactional,” Julian said, more to himself than to Garak. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Garak bit down upon Julian’s neck. Hard. 

A bolt of white-hot pleasure shot down Julian’s spine, leaving static crackling in its wake. He moaned before he could stop himself. 

“Just doing your duty,” Garak said, panting against Julian’s skin. “H-how selfless of you. I’m impressed.”

“You know what I mean,” Julian hissed.

“Do I?”

“Are you really going to make me spell it out?”

Julian's grip twisted as he continued to stroke the length of Garak's cock, pace unrelenting.

“Spell what out, Doctor? I’m afraid I don’t follow.” Garak’s fingers clawed into Julian’s shoulder. “I’m a little distracted at the moment.”

“I’m sure you are,” Julian replied, grip tightening briefly around Garak’s shaft. A keening sound began to emanate from the Cardassian's throat as Julian continued, “But what I meant is that I don’t expect you to, well, reciprocate.”

“Don't expect"—a gasp—"or don’t want?”

“You heard what I said.”

Julian felt Garak pull back. Strong, scaled fingers grasped his jaw, pulling it upwards. Heart pounding a tattoo against the bones of his chest, his eyes met Garak’s; they were wide and full of _want_ , pools of darkness surrounded by thin rings of electric blue. Julian’s hand stilled around Garak’s cock. 

“Garak—” he began, but whatever he had intended to say was lost to a groan as Garak pulled him closer, their mouths meeting in a fevered clash of lips and teeth. 

The kiss was fierce. Demanding. A wave of prickling heat rolled over Julian as he felt the tip of Garak’s tongue flicker across his bottom lip. He gasped. Then, his tongue was tangling with Garak’s, all finesse sacrificed in his haste to taste him. It was hot, messy, punctuated with the sound of heavy breathing and the moans neither of them could help but make. 

Julian felt Garak’s hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer until their bodies were flush. The heat that radiated off the Cardassian brought with it the scent of spice, smokey and deep, cut with an undercurrent of fresh sweat and something he couldn’t quite identify. Whatever it was, it was intoxicating. 

Garak grasped Julian’s hips, pulling them forward to grind against him. Julian could feel the thick length of Garak’s cock pressed against his own. He hissed at the sensation, the sparks of pleasure making his skin tingle. 

"Doctor," Garak groaned. 

Needing no further encouragement, Julian’s own hands began to wander. He swept his palms up Garak’s back, tracing the ridges that lay beneath the fabric of his gown. Across his shoulder blades next, cataloguing the interplay of bone and hard muscle, before moving down to his waist where he became rounder, softer. Perfectly imperfect—both in figure and personality. 

With a hum of pleasure, Julian thrust his hips against Garak's, fingers pulling at his cloth-covered flesh, swallowing his moans as he ravished his mouth. 

Panting heavily, Garak broke the kiss. He nipped at Julian’s jaw, his neck, his collarbone. His hands tightened around Julian’s waist.

Then, the world began to spin. 

Julian felt his back slam against the mattress. Garak followed him down, hands braced either side of Julian’s head as he straddled the doctor. Julian’s breath hitched as, in one swift motion, Garak tore the gown from his neck downwards, purple fabric falling in crumpled shreds at the side of the bed, leaving him naked and panting. Not that Julian had much opportunity to appreciate the view. A fraction of a second later, and Garak’s lips were once again sliding against his own, mouth hot and hard, the kiss almost bruising in its intensity. 

Hands grasping at Garak’s thighs, Julian thrust up against him, desperate for friction. For something, _anything_ to ease the ache of his cock. A broad hand ghosted its way down his chest, dragging the zip of his uniform with it, revealing the planes of his chest inch by torturous inch. Julian moaned loudly against Garak’s lips as he felt the Cardassian’s hand move lower. 

It was trembling. 

With little ceremony,his fingers uncharacteristically clumsy, Garak slipped the buttons of Julian’s trousers free. The zip at the fly put up little resistance against the pressure exerted by the doctor’s rock-hard cock, exposing him intimately. Julian felt the tips of Garak’s fingers brush against his bared sex, the sound of a creaking bedframe filling the air as the Cardassian repositioned himself. 

“What are you doing?” Julian gasped, breaking the kiss.

Garak sat back upon his haunches, naked and unashamed. He looked wanton. Wild. Hot and hard, straddled upon Julian’s thighs, hand wrapped around his cock, no hint of the hesitation he had displayed earlier. He _wanted_ Julian to watch him. See him in all his glory, blue tinged scales shining in the light as he took his pleasure with an almost ruthless efficiency. 

“I’d have thought it obvious, Doctor,” Garak said, fingers encircling Julian’s prick, movements mirroring those of his other hand. “Reciprocating.”

Julian gasped.

“You don’t have to,” he said, the words more of a groan than anything else. 

“And leave you to suffer alone? I think not”—Garak rubbed the head of Julian's cock between the dripping split in his lateral ridge, teasing at the entrance hidden within it—”I’m many things, Doctor, but I am not cruel.”

And in one swift movement, Garak sank down upon him, taking Julian to the hilt.

Julian felt his brain begin to short circuit at the sensation. Garak was tight and slick. Hot, too. It felt as though he had been engulfed in a furnace. One that pulsed around him, each twitch of Garak's internal muscles bringing with it another crashing wave of pleasure. It was enough to bring him dangerously close to the edge. And that was before he even took into account the visuals. 

The way Garak looked, straddled upon his thighs, clothing cast aside, face a rictus of pleasure as he slowly came undone at the seams—it was enough to make Julian gasp. The tightly held reins of Garak’s control had finally snapped. No longer the fussy old tailor, prim and proper even in hospital cotton, but wanton and unabashed, moaning loudly as he writhed upon Julian's cock. Primal, even, with a hint of danger about the claws and teeth. 

Julian watched, wide-eyed, as Garak's hand encircled his cock, the muscles of his stomach tensing with each punishing stroke of his fist. 

He looked magnificent.

Felt pretty magnificent, too. In fact, it felt like nothing Julian had ever experienced before. 

Perhaps it was the angle, the position giving Garak almost full control over how deeply Julian could sink into him—a power he used to tease the doctor to the point of madness, deep thrusts interspersed with shallow ones, the punishing rhythm one of his own maddening design. Or maybe it was the possessive undercurrent to Garak’s touch, as though he feared, should he relinquish control, Julian would slip away, leaving him alone and shaking with need. Or perhaps it was simply the result of years of repression—on the doctor’s part, at least—the feelings he had kept buried bubbling to the surface, finally free. 

Julian didn't know. But whatever the reason, he wasn't complaining.

Garak pitched forward, bracing himself against the mattress with his free hand. The other continued to work the length of his cock in time with the doctor’s thrusts. 

Julian could feel the brush of Garak’s knuckles against the soft skin of his belly. Each pass of scale over skin sent shockwaves of pleasure rippling though his body. He was so close to orgasm that each inadvertent touch only served to heighten the sensations that coursed through him, the tension in his muscles building until he felt as though he were frozen in place, unable to move, only feel. 

“Garak,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut as he fought the urge to come. 

The Cardassian moaned at the sound of his name, movements becoming erratic. 

“Garak, I...” Julian gasped. “Tell me you’re close. I… I can’t… I…”

His skin was slick with sweat. He could feel it running down the hollow of his throat. Soaking into the mattress beneath him. He felt as though he were on fire, every beat of his heart stoking the flames higher, his blood burning in his veins. 

Shaking, Julian’s hands fisted into Garak’s hair, fingers threading through the silken strands, drawing his head lower until they were so close, Julian could feel each of Garak’s ragged exhales against his cheek. 

"Garak, please," he moaned.

He didn’t kiss him. Instead, he pressed his mouth to the ridge of Garak’s neck and bit down. Hard. 

“Julian!”

He felt Garak contract around him, coming with a roar. Hot fluid painted his stomach, his chest. Above him, shaking with the aftershocks, Garak mouthed his name over and over, nothing escaping him other than a whisper. 

The sight of Garak, spent and quivering upon his cock, sent Julian careening over the edge, his own orgasm hitting him with the force of a freight shuttle. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, sparks clouding the edges of his vision. He felt almost boneless, riding on a wave of pleasure that threatened to pull him under. Drown him in a tide of blissful exhaustion. 

Half conscious, he felt the mattress move beneath him as Garak collapsed down on the bed. 

“Feel better?” he asked muzzily. 

But Garak didn’t reply. Instead, he brushed Julian’s hair back from his forehead before settling down beside him, scaly limbs tangling with Julian’s lax ones.

“This is going to happen again, isn’t it?” Julian said after a moment. 

“It was certainly more enjoyable than the usual remedy.”

The doctor narrowed his eyes. Or at least attempted to. Instead, they simply fluttered shut, body seemingly intent on the suggestion of sleep, no matter how vehemently his mind rebelled. 

A creeping sense of suspicion began to steal over him, cutting through the haze of exhaustion like a knife through butter.

“You planned this, didn’t you?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

Julian smiled. He stretched out upon the bed, slowly gathering Garak into his arms, firmly ignoring the Cardassian's half hearted attempts at protest.

“I’m not naive enough to believe anything you say.”

Garak’s lips brushed against Julian’s temple in the lightest of kisses. So light, in fact, that Julian couldn’t be sure it had even happened. 

“Then my answer doesn’t matter, does it?” Garak said. 

_Well_ , Julian thought as unconsciousness finally overtook him. He couldn’t argue with that.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Cheers to Still_Not_King for suggesting exactly which fictional muscle in Garak's neck Julian ought to press. 
> 
> And many thanks to Syaunei, AlexisafanST, Conceptadecency and Kaelio for listening to me whinge more or less non-stop whilst I was writing this fic. You all rock.
> 
> ♥


End file.
